Waiting for them to fix the exact same thing inside of my brother that couldn’t be fixed inside our father almost 30 years earlier

It was the
eyeglasses that did it. You handed them to me just before they wheeled you down
to get cut and I just about lost it. Finally, we spend half an hour alone
together and it’s gotta be here. Like this.

I know what
you must be thinking. There you are, at five-thirty in the morning, shaved from
neck to ankles and wearing a gown that makes you look small and weak and scared
and sick, not how you usually look, and what does your asshole brother remember
but a pair of eyeglasses.

It’s not
all I remember. For months afterward, I lay awake most nights watching reruns
of the whole thing, until the sun came up and the screens inside my eyelids
faded to light. Every minute we were with each other that day was right there
in front of me, Joe. You waking me up on the couch at four, so we could get to
the hospital on time. (Like you, I hadn’t really slept and was grateful to not
have to pretend any longer.) How you dressed — light, easy for me to throw
stuff in a bag later on, no wallet because you weren’t gonna need one where you
were going. The look on Mom’s face when you kissed her good-bye and told her
not to worry. The look on your face after they laid you down on the gurney and
the young, sweet black guy touched your shoulder when he saw that you might
start to cry.

Some of the
images have faded with time, but the glasses? Not a chance. It hurt way too
much and way too deep to take them from your hand, to know that even though you
were young and strong and necessary
at the time, you might not need them again. And that if you hadn’t
needed them again, surely I would have them, on a shelf or in a drawer, maybe
right here on my desk. Someplace where I could always get to the glasses. And
to you.

I waited in
the lobby downstairs during the surgery and, for some reason, kept taking out my
handkerchief to clean your lenses. It felt good holding the things in my hands,
taking care of them, y’know, but on the fourth or fifth time I remembered
something that made me put them back inside my pocket. For good.

I was 14 or
15 years old (that’d make you 10 or 11) and had been going through some
drawers in the old apartment on Liberty Avenue, when what did I come across but
a pair of daddy’s old glasses. The frames were black plastic, not wire like
yours.

This memory
wasn’t exactly helping me get through the wait, and so I went and got some
coffee in the cafeteria and tried hard to blow it all off. But I couldn’t. Dad
was necessary, too, young even, and
look how that turned out. Now you’re in there with your ribs broken, your chest
cut wide open and your heart being held up out of your body by some guy you’d
only met two days ago. And what’s this joker trying to do? Fix the exact
same thing inside of you that they couldn’t manage to fix inside our father
almost thirty years earlier.

After one
sip of watered-down hospital coffee, I tossed the cup and thought that what I
really needed was a good stiff drink.

You
scared the beejeezus out of me by getting so sick, so fast, Joe. When you
called to tell me that you needed the operation right now and how it’d be great if I could get away for a few days
to help you out, the only time your voice cracked was when you noted the date
that you got the news.

For
years, October 7th has been the day
for us. I was there when it happened, you know. The firemen carried his body
right past me and into the bedroom, until Benny the undertaker could show. They
whisked you away upstairs so that you wouldn’t have to see, I guess because it
was okay for a 12-year-old to see his father’s corpse stroll by him, but 8
was just a little too young. Everything that morning happened so fast. His
chest hurt, he fell down on the kitchen floor, he was gone.

I
was having a beer with a friend the other night. He asked how you were doing.
His brother had the same operation you had a couple years back. I told my
friend how you had to get cut again five years after that first time and how I moved
in with you for a couple weeks to help out. That was, what, ten years ago now?
But when I was telling my friend that thing about your eyeglasses the other
night, goddammit if I didn’t start crying like a little girl.